


Despite, Despise

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-06
Updated: 2008-03-06
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The moth flutters irritably, back and forth in a kind spider’s web.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Post LoTTL, AU. Just... a vague little descriptive piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Despite, Despise

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

_everyone becomes the one, the one they most despise  
\- all the clocks are broken, cop shoot cop_

A butterfly sets a moth alight.

And realises he has not won, not really.

Because even though he has, in fact, saved the world with the aid of an exotically dark-skinned woman and a stereotypically-handsome hero, and stopped the greatest monster from destroying a beautiful world, he still lost.

The moth flutters irritably, back and forth in a kind spider’s web.

Because though they’re the same, they’re not, really.

Insects trying to morph into the same image while their colours tell differently.

~*~

History marks a date, 2008 Earth years, and the millions of miles away, the planet Tawanian burns. A ripple of light, like fireflies, spreads across the surface of the planet.

It’s horrible, terrible, _awful_. But it’s historic, and true, and the Master puts his hands to the window and screams, and rages, and cries, and pushes the Doctor to the floor, pushes him down and takes what he can in the light of a planet’s death.

And the Doctor is confused, because in all that horrific beauty, he saw the spark that drove the Master… and wanted to share with him.

~*~

‘You’ve won,’ says the Master, on an uninhabited planet, stretched out on the grass. ‘You’ve won.’

And the Doctor doesn’t say anything, because he’s forgotten what speech means.

For hours, on the planet’s surface, the Master disappears, and he’s not worried, not the least bit anxious, despite the constant pacing and hair-tugging. He’s not. Because the Master cannot go anywhere, not off the face of this deserted planet.

But the jailer always keeps his prisoners. 

He’s learning that now.

‘The bars,’ the Master says quietly, behind him. ‘You can’t see them, but they’re there.’

‘I know,’ replies the Doctor, recovering. ‘I know.’

And the Master rallies, and pushes him down, kicking, screaming, slapping and growling. ‘You _don’t_. You never did. You never, _ever_ did.’

‘No,’ says the Doctor, with increasing irony as he rises. ‘I never did, not before you imprisoned me the first time, not after the last. Never the feeling of escaped freedom just out of reach, no matter how much you taunted me, like a carrot on a string. Never the feeling of complete devastation or pain. My loved ones taken away from me.’

He’s practically spitting, and the Master’s nerves stand on end.

‘You cried for it, Doctor. You cried for this. Wept, like a child, over my body. Is it what you wanted? To have a taste of power? To hold it over me? To spoon it down my throat while you stood in righteous glory?’

The Master turns aside, and the Doctor catches a glimpse of the silvery lining inside his coat. ‘Are you still who you thought you would be? Or are we turning sides?’

Cold fingers stroke his face, running down his cheeks, finding his bone structure.

‘Will you turn the other cheek?’

~*~

In a cold room, a butterfly struggles against icy bonds, trapping it, with washes of death falling over. And he cries, because in righteousness he fell to the depths, and let the other gain the hand.

Because the moth, as it flutters, destroys.

And the butterfly, as it flies, just soars.


End file.
